


September 1918

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Series: Sons and Lovers Continuity [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>OK, I started this story on June 22 (so it's only taken me six months minus a day to complete it). Sometime in late September or early October, I woke up in the middle of the night and realized that there was no way Thomas would have been demobilized or discharged from his, you know, war service at the Downton Hospital and able to take a position with Edward or doing anything anywhere else with anyone. I feel rather self-conscious about the anachronism. ALittleWhos-This was a darling in helping me clarify that and brainstorm, but because the continuity of this fic and this series refers to the war which is ending, etc, I was in too deep to, you know, hide the anachronism by surreptitiously changing the year in the title. I hope you can look past that and enjoy this piece anyway - and kids, don't do what I did; don't fall into mistakes like this at home.</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thomas has been living on Edward’s estate for six months when the news comes. He reads the letter that’s fobbed off on him, growing cold as he does so. He knows he should bring Edward the news himself. Of course, he dreads doing it. Edward’s and Jack’s relationship has been far from easy, but for all their quarrelling, Edward feared the worst when Jack was called up. And now – well…

“Sir,” Thomas says, knocking at the door of Edward’s bedroom before entering. Edward is sitting at his desk by the open window, as usual.

“What is it?” he calls as Thomas enters.

Thomas cringes. Edward already looks so drawn, so anxious. Anyone would, in these times – and Thomas knows better than most how Edward is still struggling with his own condition. He hates to think what effect this news will have.

But it won’t help to lie, or to delay things, and Thomas loves Edward. It might be best if he hears it from him. That’s why he came up here.

“Is something wrong?” Edward asks. The words rise as a hint of fear steals into his tone. Thomas realizes that he’s gone too long without speaking. He shuts the door behind him with a soft creak.

“There’s been a letter about your brother,” he begins.

Edward pales. He opens his mouth to speak, but can’t just yet, and grips the arm rests of his chair before swallowing hard.

“Wounded or killed?” he asks.

“He was shot,” Thomas says. “And – he died in the field hospital Monday. I’m so sorry. I’ll read you the whole letter, if you want…”

Edward shakes his head. “There’s no need.”

His voice cracks as he says it; he buries his face in his hands.

“You can go,” he whispers.

Thomas hesitates. He doesn’t _know_ if he should go. He just doesn’t know what to do, and it makes his stomach clench to see Edward in such pain, when he can do so little to help. Part of him wants to take Edward up on his offer and walk out the door rather than look on feeling so helpless – yet he knows he’d be a louse to leave him alone with this sort of grief.

He hears Edward’s first sob and freezes, caught between the door and his lover. Edward has _never_ broken down before. When Doctor Clarkson sent him away – when he tried to kill himself that time – he hardly said a word. Thomas had gotten nothing out of stoic, quiet, polite Edward, no sign of what was in his head. He has seen Edward’s suicide attempt; he has seen him so morose and despairing it nearly broke Thomas’s heart – he has even seen Edward laugh on occasion, on rare happy days – but he has never, ever seen him cry like this. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Tell me if I can do anything,” Thomas pleads. He’d always taken Edward’s part in the rivalry between the two brothers – he’s in love with Edward, not Jack – but somehow he hadn’t counted on there being affection between them, too, or grief if the worst were to happen. Jack had been so infuriating, so cocky when he was called up, despite everything Edward had been through. And now, of course, Edward would blame himself for all their quarrels…

“I’m just so sorry,” Thomas says again. Maybe he’d encouraged Edward, too – misjudged the brother. He didn’t think so, but then, he’d really only seen them together a few times.

“You should leave,” Edward says. “You don’t have to see me like this.” Then another sob catches at him. He slumps low against the desk and weeps openly into his shaking hand.

Thomas cringes. At last he steps away from the door, breathes in deep and draws close enough to Edward to put one cautious hand on his shoulder.

Edward tenses, but quiets down for a moment.

“Really, you don’t have to stay,” he says again.

“Well, I’m here if you need anything…”

Edward wipes brusquely at the tears on his cheeks.

“You can do _nothing_ ,” he replies.

Thomas worries at his lip. Edward’s right, but he can’t just leave, can he? Even though he can hardly bear to see the other man’s sorrow.

“But if there is something –”

“You know I was the one who was supposed to die in this war,” Edward says, cutting Thomas off. “Not Jack. I’m – I’m convinced of that, and now everyone will think I’m happy – that I’m better off because of his death…”

He clears his throat, and Thomas can hear him choking back another. God, it’s awful – there’s no ‘supposed to’ in this situation, no rhyme or reason to this war which may finally, ironically, be ending – but Thomas doesn’t know where to begin or how to say all that.

“No one would ever think that of you,” he begins.

Edward shuts his eyes. His pale cheeks flush with anger.

“You don’t _know_ that,” he snaps. Then he composes himself with an effort. Thomas can see the muscles of his jaw twitch. “Just help me dress in something appropriate, and then you can go. I – I should still have everything from when Father died.”  

“All right,” Thomas murmurs. He’s not sure if Edward should be ‘Edward’ to him now, or ‘sir’ – it’s an intimate moment, in a twisted, confusing way that leaves Thomas standing still like an idiot behind the other man’s chair. He takes a slow step towards the wardrobe.

“Does Mother know?” Edward asks. He keeps his voice very low.

Thomas really hadn’t wanted to get into this. Mrs. Courtenay has favoured Jack for years, from what Edward has said. It was quite obvious to Thomas too, living here. She’d had the news first and shut herself up in her room. Thomas doubts that seeing her will make Edward feel any better, but then, he can hardly refuse to answer, either.

“She saw the letter already,” Thomas says.

“She’s going to need me,” Edward says, clearing his throat again to stifle his own pain – ever the dutiful son, even to those who don’t deserve it. “And I’ll need your help dressing.”

*

Twenty minutes later, Thomas finds himself wandering aimlessly around the corridor on the main floor. Edward, dressed in full mourning, had coaxed his mother to see him in the drawing room. They’d embraced – Thomas managed to glimpse that much before they shut the door, mother and son united in their grief and looking very much alike in their black clothes. It’s ironic that Mrs. Courtenay has always preferred her younger son. Edward resembles her far more than Jack does – did. He’d bred truer to her side of the family, and had the same thin, sharp angles to his face and body, in contrast with his late brother’s heavier features. But there’s so much more at work in this family than appearances.

Thomas can’t remember ever caring so much for anyone he’d worked for. He supposes he should go up and change his own clothes to something more appropriate for a house in mourning. He only hopes Mrs. Courtenay won’t say anything cruel or stupid to Edward in her hysteria.

 _She’s going to need me_ , Edward had said, being the kind, darling thing that he is. Thomas imagines holding Edward in his arms to comfort him, as soon as they’ll be alone together. _I need you_ , he wants to say. _And I love you._ His body is tense with worry; he rubs the back of his neck as he mounts the stairs. It unsettled him, seeing Edward so broken. He hates even to think on it, yet he wonders what Edward might _do_ , tonight.

*

Edward is a little more composed when he calls Thomas up to his room. Thomas would have been happy to help him up the stairs; they’re difficult for Edward under the best of circumstances, and the other staff can hardly criticize Thomas helping a blind man up to his room, even if it is by the front staircase, and even if Thomas is only Edward’s valet. But Edward insists on trying alone.

“How are you managing?” Thomas asks, shutting the door to Edward’s bedroom behind him. Edward’s shoulders are hunched; he looks exhausted. He shrugs a little to answer Thomas’s question.

“As you’d expect,” he murmurs. He stands there silently while Thomas helps him undress. Thomas worries at his lip, at a loss for words once again.

“Tell me if there’s any way I can help,” Thomas says, as he had earlier. He doubts Edward will ask for anything, which will only worry Thomas more.

“I’m cold,” Edward replies. It’s a simple request, though the room’s warm enough. Thomas recalls some of the worst moments of his own life – his terror in that field hospital that they wouldn’t give him a blighty ticket after all, and that he’d sacrificed his hand for nothing, or the loss and loneliness he’d felt when things ended so disastrously with Philip. He remembers sitting in the hospital or standing in that corridor at Downton Abbey trying not to shiver, more from pain than from cold.

“I’ll have one of the maids build up the fire a bit more,” Thomas says quickly. “Or actually I could do it myself. Since I’m here.”

Edward shakes his head.

“It’s beneath you. Just have one of the maids do it, and then I won’t want to be disturbed. You can fetch me another blanket in the meantime.”

Thomas goes to the cedar chest.  It only takes him a moment to find an unused blanket, and he wishes for the umpteenth time that it were as easy to find words to _say_. To be perfectly honest, he’s a little afraid of what Edward might do left to his own devices. Edward seems so unbalanced. A blow like this, and all the attendant guilt, could be disastrous – and there’s no one who knows or cares for him like Thomas does. Edward was lucky the hospital had hushed up his suicide attempt. Thomas has played his part in helping Edward keep the incident secret, but now he wonders if that was the best course of action. No one else really knows what Edward’s been through, and so no one knows to watch him as Thomas would…

Thomas recalls how much easier it was when he didn’t care. He’d had lovers he knew and cared almost nothing about, and it was much, much simpler – young men he met at clubs and things in London, in his few off-hours when he’d been there with the Crawleys or on leave during the war. But he supposes he’s grown up now. The war and Edward changed him.

“I’ll lay this out for you,” Thomas says.

Edward shakes his head. “Just hand it to me. I can get into bed myself, you know.”

“Well, I’m here if you need me.”

Edward’s grip on his cane tightens.

“I know,” he says, after a moment. “But I’d rather be alone with my thoughts. In fact, never mind about the fire.”

“Very well,” Thomas says, slowly. He steps closer to Edward and touches the other man’s cheek with his open hand, then moves his fingers downward to caress Edward’s neck.

“May I –” he begins.

Edward hesitates before nodding. Thomas slips his free hand around his waist and leans forward to kiss him, chastely, on the lips. He can feel Edward’s mouth curve into the ghost of a smile beneath his own.

Then Edward turns his face away to break the kiss.

“I – I know you mean well,” Edward says. “I almost smiled just now, and I can’t believe that, after today…” He lets his voice trail off.

Thomas lowers his hand to grip Edward’s.

“All right. But you’ll ring for me if you want anything, won’t you? I don’t think I’ll sleep much tonight.”

Edward gives a bitter laugh. “Neither will I. Anyway – good night.”

*


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas rises early the next morning, dresses in the darkest suit he has, since it seems respectful even if Edward won’t _see_ it, and goes down to Edward’s room before he’s even had his own breakfast.

He hesitates a moment before knocking on the door. He felt like sucha fool yesterday, standing around beside Edward with a lump in his throat. He _hated_ being utterly useless like that. But it’s worse not knowing if Edward’s all right. He screws up his courage and knocks.

“Barrow?” he hears Edward say.

He slips into the room. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Edward sighs. “ _Thomas,_ I – Well, it’s kind of you to come so early.” He puts one hand to his mouth and bites at his thumbnail. Thomas looks him over. His face is pale and his hair is mussed, as if he had spent all night tossing and turning rather than resting. It wouldn’t surprise Thomas if he had.

“Thomas,” Edward says quietly, “do you mind sitting with me for a bit?”

“Of course not.”

Thomas hurries to Edward’s side. He doesn’t sit down on his bed – that seems too intimate for right now – but drops into the armchair beside it and puts his hand on Edward’s arm.

“Did you sleep at all?”

Edward shakes his head. “Hardly.”

Thomas sits by him, patting his arm and hoping the touch is at least a little comforting. It seems to be: Thomas can feel Edward relax slightly before continuing.

“I – well – I may have been wrong about needing to be alone,” Edward murmurs.

For some reason, Thomas feels his cheeks warm at that. But then, he’d wanted to help Edward – had wanted Edward to let him in and let him help. He might not be much good at being kind, but God damn it he’ll _try_ for someone he loves.

“I’m right here,” Thomas says, pulling the chair closer to Edward. “You – you can say as much or as little as you want.”

Edward nods. He reaches for Thomas and brushes his fingers over Thomas’s knee before finding his free hand and clasping it.

“You would never believe it, but we were the best of friends when we were small,” Edward says.

Thomas – who saw Jack try to disinherit Edward, or at least use his condition as an opportunity to push him aside, and had supposed things were so black and white, so simple – says, “I don’t doubt that you were.”

“I suppose it was this infernal war,” Edward adds. “Well, no –” he swallows, and Thomas assumes he’s fighting back a sob; selfishly, he hopes Edward won’t break down again – “I started things started going wrong before that. But when I was – called up…” He shakes his head, unable to continue. “But maybe I was wrong. I thought I was so threatened, but I might have misunderstood.”

Edward stops short. Thomas disagrees with him, but won’t say it just now.

“No one would blame you,” Thomas murmurs.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Edward fires back, “I’m not so sure. I’m safe – I benefit; I get to live, little as I may get out of my life – and he’ll never challenge me on anything again, about the estate or anything else, even if I run it into the ground…”

“No one who knew anything about you would think that,” Thomas says, more forcefully this time. “You didn’t start this war. You said yourself that if it were up to you you’d have stopped it years ago.”

“Any sane person would,” Edward says. “I just – I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’ll never see my brother again.” Now his voice cracks. “Not that I would have _seen_ him, in any case, but you know what I mean – I can’t believe he’ll never come home again and we’ll never reconcile or anything…”

 It’s not even his family, but Thomas’s throat tightens. He gathers Edward in his arms. Edward slumps against him, buries his face in Thomas’s shoulder and wraps his arms around Thomas’s body.

“I’m sorry,” Edward whispers.

“Don’t be.”

So Edward draws closer. The sleeves of his pajamas roll up; he jerks one hand away from Thomas to pull a sleeve back down and hide the scars on his wrist. Thomas instinctively moves to do the same for the other, less scarred side, before taking Edward in his arms again.

_All right_ , he thinks. You _can weep if you like. I can stand it now, I think, and it might help you…_ He doesn’t dare say it. Weeping has never helped Thomas, but then, masking the despair he’d felt sometimes hadn’t done much good, either. But Edward is a gentleman. He presses his cheek to Thomas’s neck – Thomas can feel how cold he is – yet he remains composed, even in this intimate position.

“I _would_ have stopped this awful war, if it were up to me,” Edward murmurs. “I don’t care who’d think worse of me for it. And I realize now – I shouldn’t have been so anxious for my own place, with everything that’s gone on. I should have let Jack take charge if he wanted.”

He gives another hard swallow, jaw tensing against Thomas’s skin. Thomas recalls how insulting Jack had been to his brother, in his attitude if not his words, but you can’t speak ill of the dead, so he bites back an uncharitable remark and smoothes Edward’s untidy hair with his hands.

They sit like that for a long time. Eventually Thomas gathers up the nerve to press his lips to Edward’s hair. Edward’s fingers tighten around Thomas’s body.

“Just tell me if I can get you anything,” Thomas murmurs. “Some breakfast or anything…”

“I couldn’t possibly eat,” Edward replies. His voice is hoarse; he hesitates a moment, then adds, “I – actually, I could, but I don’t want to.”

“You should take something,” Thomas says, seizing on anything concrete he might do to help. (A few years ago it would have seemed strange, for a young gentleman to eat up in his own room like a married lady. Now it’s just one more thing people try not to remark. And Thomas likes to think he’s more useful company to Edward than Mrs. Courtenay would be, or than Jack ever was.) “I can bring you up something–”

Edward shakes his head. “The thought of it bothers me, when I’ll never sit with Jack in the dining room ever again – not even to quarrel, or ask forgiveness.” Another ragged breath, and Edward presses his face even closer into Thomas’s shoulder, until Thomas feels warm tears on his jacket. He kisses Edward’s hair again.

“I didn’t even ask how he died,” Edward whispers against Thomas’s sleeve.

Now it’s Thomas’s turn to hesitate.

“They said it was a sniper’s bullet,” he says, “back of the head. It would have been fast.” He hopes that bit of news, at least, will be some small comfort, since they know too well the horrors some men endure before dying. Thomas would have hated telling Edward anything that was worse – anything particularly gruesome – though he could hardly have lied to Edward, no matter what. “If they told the truth in the letter.”

“They never do, do they?” Edward asks.

Thomas can only hold him closer.

“I can’t think of eating or anything,” Edward reiterates. Thomas continues to kiss his hair, and imagines the look of pain that must be creasing his face. “I – suppose I’ve needed the distraction, too, of physical discomfort, to stop me brooding _all_ the time.”

“Ah,” Thomas says, foolishly. Yet he understands what Edward means, about being desperate enough to need any distraction from your thoughts, or perhaps any reminder that you’re still alive and that your sorrow hasn’t drowned you quite yet.

Thomas can feel a lump forming in his own throat. He’d never even liked Jack, but seeing Edward’s grief turns his stomach. He thinks of some of his own worst memories – of his parents’ deaths, and that night when Philip burned his letters and dashed all his hopes, seven years ago now – and of course that other night less than two years before when he’d come so close to losing Edward himself…

“Anyway,” Edward goes on, clearing his throat, “Mother said we should take breakfast together – that we oughtn’t to be apart at a time like this. I suppose I should dress. I only…” He stops, lets his voice trail off. Then he gathers the strength to go on. “You needn’t worry, you know. I won’t try to hurt myself now, no matter what a louse I feel like.”

“Nothing about this was your fault,” Thomas says.

Edward sighs again. “Either way, I know when I’m needed.”

Thomas squeezes Edward’s hand and suppresses a sigh of his own. Somehow, it bothers him that Mrs. Courtenay’s need might matter more than his. He _should_ be grateful. Edward’s too dutiful to harm himself or take what he would call the coward’s way out, when others need him. He’d admitted to Thomas that just about the only thing that kept him from putting a bullet in his own head in France was knowing that his men needed him, little as he could do to help any of them. Thomas only wishes he could come _first_ , for a change.

“ _I_ need you,” he says, with fire.

Edward doesn’t answer right away.

“I know,” he says at last, turning his face away from Thomas. “But not half as much as I need you.”

He’s still ashamed of his blindness, of being dependent, even after so long. Thomas cups his chin in his gloved hand and kisses him hard.

“You’re wrong about that,” he says. “Anyway, I _love_ you.”

Edward draws back. Thomas watches him bite his lip and sees the way he clenches his jaw, then tries to unclench it with a crack. Thomas flushes; he wishes he hadn’t brought up his own worries and his own jealousy at a time like this.

But Edward nods his head a little. He reaches for Thomas’s arm and leans closer to kiss Thomas, missing his lips but touching his mouth to Thomas’s cheek.

“I know that,” he says. “I know, and you know that I think and feel the same way.”

They stay together for a long moment, leaning into each other, cheek to cheek, and supporting one another.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas murmurs, “I shouldn’t – impose on you, now –”

“You’re not,” Edward says. “I’m glad to know that I’m not alone in all this.”

“You’re not,” Thomas promises. “And you won’t be for as long as you’ll have me.”

That faint smile touches Edward’s face again, briefly. Thomas relaxes.

“Help me dress,” Edward says, embarrassed as he usually is by displays of strong emotion.

“All right,” Thomas agrees, though he lets his hands linger over Edward’s neck and shoulders as he helps him into his shirt, and kisses him several times before getting his waistcoat. Edward flushes.

“We shouldn’t be too long in case Mother comes in to see me,” he warns.

Thomas hesitates before kissing Edward one last time.

“Very good, _sir_ ,” he says. He hopes it’s all right to tease Edward as he sometimes does in private, and holds his breath.

Edward tries to smile again.

“I can’t believe my life is to go on,” he whispers.

“Well,” Thomas says, taking Edward’s hand, “it is, and you can. And you have me.” He lets his hand drop to his side and draws back. “Should I wait by the door?”

Edward shakes his head. “No, you can sit down. There’s nothing obscene in that; she knows we’re friends.”

Thomas hesitates before sitting down. Mrs. Courtenay _does_ know they’re friends. Edward, of course, can’t see it, but Thomas has noticed a number of dark looks from her whenever he acts too familiar with Edward.

He takes his place in the chair by Edward’s bed regardless. Edward stands nearby, clutching his cane, his face white but composed.

Soon Mrs. Courtenay enters the room. Thomas stands up again, keeping his head down. But the woman hardly looks at him. She goes right to Edward and takes him in her arms, sobbing. Thomas backs away from their embrace. He can see the way Edward’s brow furrows with pain and grief.

“It’s all right, Mother,” he says, putting an arm around her carefully, to hide the scars on his wrist. “I’m here for you the way – the way he would have wanted.”

He’s grasping for words, Thomas can tell. Mrs. Courtenay gives another little sob.

“I know that, darling,” she says.

Thomas looks her over now that she’s too preoccupied to see him do it. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her hair is pulled back in a simple, austere style, though she usually likes for her maid to do it up in the latest fashions.

“Please come down with me, now that I only have you to look after…”

Edward flinches, but nods. Thomas wishes he could do more than just stand on the sidelines.

“Of course, Mother.”

At this, Thomas clears his throat. “Should I go, sir?”

He sees Edward turn his face towards the sound of his voice.

“Yes, I think that would be best.”

And Mrs. Courtenay notices Thomas at last. He looks away, hoping to seem too polite to intrude on her sorrow, though he watches her as much as he can through the corner of his eyes. Her look isn’t dark today; she must be too unhappy even to be suspicious.

“That’s kind of you, Barrow,” she says. “Full mourning. I’m grateful for your loyalty.”

“Thank you, mum,” Thomas replies, though he has to fight back a grimace of jealousy. _I ought to be with Edward. I’ve done more for him than she has._ But he knows it’s right in a way, isn’t it? As much as he resents it, he knows he must be a fool to be smarting inside the way he is.

He nods to Mrs. Courtenay before leaving the room with his head still bowed and his chest tight. He’ll be back to look in on Edward again as soon as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I started this story on June 22 (so it's only taken me six months minus a day to complete it). Sometime in late September or early October, I woke up in the middle of the night and realized that there was no way Thomas would have been demobilized or discharged from his, you know, war service at the Downton Hospital and able to take a position with Edward or doing anything anywhere else with anyone. I feel rather self-conscious about the anachronism. ALittleWhos-This was a darling in helping me clarify that and brainstorm, but because the continuity of this fic and this series refers to the war which is ending, etc, I was in too deep to, you know, hide the anachronism by surreptitiously changing the year in the title. I hope you can look past that and enjoy this piece anyway - and kids, don't do what I did; don't fall into mistakes like this at home.

**Author's Note:**

> I prompted Tito11 this prompt during one of the big Tumblr Downton prompt fests a few months ago, and she did a lovely job of it. I have now stolen the prompt back, and have had this idea - Jack Courtenay dying in an AU where Edward lives - underlying a number of my Thomas/Edward canon period stories.


End file.
